


Abkehr

by zzoaozz



Category: Sleepy Hollow (1999)
Genre: Dark, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-24
Updated: 2013-04-24
Packaged: 2017-12-09 10:19:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/773085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zzoaozz/pseuds/zzoaozz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brom's ghost has a favor to ask of Ichabod and it may just be the death of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Abkehr

**Author's Note:**

> Abkehr is German for a sudden turning away as from a principal or belief, a renunciation, to turn your back on something.

Ichabod settled Masbeth into his own bed and stopped briefly to check on Katrina. She was sleeping peacefully. He moved quietly past her door pulling his coat on with difficulty. He was tired, bruised, and stiff from his mad flight through the woods the night before. More than that, he was deeply disturbed and weary to his very soul. He slipped out into the cool, night air. The village of Sleepy Hollow lay silent and dark. Many of the citizens had fled. Many were dead. He went over the count in his head, Van Garret and his son, the Widow Winship and her unborn child, the Killians, Hardenbrook, Phillipse, Masbeth's father, Katrina's father, Steenwyke, and Lady Van Tassell, all people with something to hide. There had been innocents killed along the way as well, the Van Tassel's maid, the old crone, the Killian boy, and Brom Van Brunt.

The Horseman had killed them, he should feel joyous at having stopped his reign of terror. He was glad that Lady Van Tassell was gone, but the Hessian had been as much her victim as the rest of them. The thought of the tall, pale soldier was enough to make him tremble in fear. The ghost had haunted his dreams since the first time he saw him. The slight scar his sword had left seemed to ache whenever he thought about him. He could not shake the memory of those pale eyes staring at him after his head was returned. They had looked at him with an intensity he had seen only once before, in Brom's deep blue eyes the first time Katrina had kissed him.

There was a strange, leaden feeling in the pit of his stomach at the thought of the young man who had died fighting what most men would have run from on sight. He deserved better than to be forgotten. The worst thing was the way Katrina had not even seemed upset at his death. He had thought that they were a couple from the jealous way Van Brunt had looked at her the first time he had set foot in the Van Tassel home and the way he had seemed so protective of her at Masbeth's funeral. 

Perhaps he had misjudged the relationship after all. It was just like Katrina to let him continue on with an incorrect impression if it served to further her carefully cultivated aura of mystery. If he had known that, he might have...

Might have what? He did not understand the direction his thoughts were taking. He could not imagine why on earth Brom's death of all those he had seen affected him the most. It still amazed him that he had found the courage to try and help Brom when normally he would have hung back in terror. It could have been him as easily as Brom slashed in half and knocked into the river. 

He stepped up onto the covered bridge. He had died here. There was nothing left to mark the spot, no sign of a scuffle, no memorial, nothing. The bridge lay silent and only the creek below sounded as it laughed its way over mossy rocks through narrow banks. He stood still and held his breath.

It was silent, too silent. A moment ago a few late crickets had been singing and a dog had been barking monotonously from somewhere in town. Now even the wind had ceased. There was a sound behind him, the clomping of booted feet crossing the bridge. He caught his breath and spun around steeling himself to face the Hessian, but found himself looking into a pair of sad, blue eyes in a strong, handsome face framed by long, brown hair.

"Brom?" he whispered before fainting. 

He came around slowly. He was lying on the bridge. If he had been stiff and cold before, he was nearly immobile now. He dragged himself to his knees then got his feet under him. Pivoting slowly, he scanned the inky shadows for any sign of the apparition. There was nothing. 

He heaved a sigh of relief then nearly screamed as a voice spoke from just behind him. "Don't be afraid, Ichabod Crane. I won't hurt you." 

He turned slowly to face the ghost, managing somehow to retain consciousness. "Um, yes, well Brom, what brings your restless spirit,so to speak, back tonight." He swallowed with an audible gulp. 

When Brom spoke, it was in a soft whisper that seemed to ebb and float on the night wind. "I need you to take me to Him." 

"Him?" Ichabod asked the question dreading the answer. 

"The Horseman, the Hessian. I must find him. It's important." 

"He is at rest now, we returned his head." 

"He will never be at peace, our grandparents made sure of that. I must find him, Ichabod. Please, help me." 

The faint voice was nearly pleading and looking at the specter's face, Ichabod knew how much it cost the proud, young man to ask for help, especially from him."

"I suppose I could try to lead you to the Tree of the Dead. He would be there if anywhere." Ichabod tried not to show how much the prospect of facing the Hessian frightened him and excited him at the same time. "Perhaps, with no one controlling him, he will not be so intent on decapitating everyone in sight." Ichabod rather doubted that, though. If there were anyone the Hessian should be seeking revenge on, it would be him. "Why do you want to see him? Other than the fact that he...um...did you in...what is the connection."

Brom seemed to stare right through him. Ichabod shivered with more than cold. 

"He can help me repair a terrible mistake I made. We must hurry, though. Time is short. Will you help me?" The ghost grasped Ichabod's shoulders and held his eyes. He felt solid, real, only dreadfully cold. 

"I will try my best, Brom." 

The ghost actually smiled, something he had never seen Brom do in life. It was a very pleasant smile that warmed his eyes and softened his stubborn features. "That is all I will ask."

The long trek through the forest was far worse than Ichabod remembered. The fact that Brom moved as silently as a ghost... a shadow he corrected himself hurriedly... and occasionally faded into the roiling mist terrified the young constable. Brom had also insisted that he needed to remain in physical contact with Ichabod in order to leave the bridge. The icy hand that held his firmly made the whole journey even more surreal. 

The silence soon became too much for Ichabod to bear. He attempted to converse with the spirit at his side. "So Brom, what is it like to...pass on" He winced at the phrasing, but Brom did not seem offended.

"I don't know. I saw that I was going to die and the fear went away. This kind of warm, relaxed feeling came over me. It didn't hurt at all. The Hessian's the best at what he does." There was open respect in the comment. Ichabod looked at his companion in surprise. 

Brom smiled that same easy grin. "You think I should hate him, huh? You were right and you tried to warn me. He wouldn't have killed me if I hadn't kept attacking him. That's part of the reason I need to see him." 

"Are you planning on apologizing or getting even or what?" 

"I'm going to ask him a favor." 

"What kind of favor?" 

"You'll see." 

Ichabod questioned Brom's ghost further, but received no more information on the matter. He sighed. "I can't believe I'm even doing this." 

"Thank you for helping me now, and thank you for trying to help me last night. I never got the chance to tell you how brave you were." 

"If I had been thinking with my head instead of just reacting, I could have hit you on the head with something instead of tussling with the Horseman, then you might be alive right now."

"'If' has never changed the past, Ichabod. If it could, I would have done things differently from the moment you walked into town." His voice was oddly sad and wistful.

"Mmm, about Katrina, Brom...I didn't mean to...divert...her attention. I'm not looking for a wife or anything like that. I just think of her as a friend, you know."

"Katrina and I were nothing more than friends ourselves, not even really good friends. There was too much jealousy between us." 

"Jealousy over what, your family is as well off as hers isn't it." 

"Yes." 

There was an awkward silence between them as Ichabod began to see the implications of the last few statements. "Oh!" He had not meant to speak out loud, much less used that astounded tone of voice. He blushed and was grateful for the dark shadows beneath the trees. 

Brom laughed gently, a sound like dry leaves whispering across the autumn grass. "You do understand, don't you?" 

Any reply he might have made was cut off as the path ended at the edge of the small clearing where the Tree of the Dead held dominion over the night. 

"We're here." Ichabod whispered. "His grave is over there." He pointed. "Good luck then, Brom. I had best be going." 

He had taken no more than two steps away from the tree when icy arms wrapped around him from behind. He bit back a startled cry. That eery voice whispered close to his ear, "Please Ichabod, just a little while longer. I need you." 

Ichabod closed his eyes and tilted his head back until it rested against a solid shoulder. Soft tendrils of hair caressed his cheek. "I...I will do my best Brom." 

Brom pulled him into a tight hug. He could feel the cool body pressing against his back. He cried out softly as Brom kissed the sensitive skin where his neck and shoulder met. He almost cried out again in regret when Brom pulled away. 

"I know, you would never do less than your best. You are the only one who ever doubted it, Ichabod. Show me his grave, please." 

Ichabod trembled with fear and hated himself for his own cowardice. As if reading his mind, the ghost at his side took his hand. 

"Only a fool would face the Hessian without fear, a suicidal fool at that." 

Ichabod relaxed a little and nodded as he led the ghost carefully around the tree to the low hollow where the Horseman's grave lay. Ichabod had meant to cover the grave again, but had forgotten in the bustle of pulling himself back together and getting the others home. He felt a wave of sadness wash through him. Even a mercenary deserved better than a shallow, unmarked grave in the forest. War or no war, his execution had been murder. No amount of sugar coating would change that. He found himself blinking back tears. He wondered if he had mad and this was just a delusion. 

The tree felt real enough. He climbed carefully down to the hole barely registering that Brom had released his hand and was waiting quietly at the crest of the hill. The rain had loosened the earth and the fresh mud slipped beneath his boots. He started to slide and reached out for something to grab onto. 

He flailing hand was caught securely by someone wearing a leather glove. Clinging to the hand, Ichabod found his footing and froze. The hand that held him was considerably larger than Brom's. He could just feel the edge of some sort of metal ornamentation where his fingers curled around it. 

Ichabod caught his breath and forced himself to turn. It was the Hessian as he had known it must be. Gathering his courage he cleared his throat. "Yes, well, thank you sir for the...um...hand there. I'll just be leaving now. I am sure you two have a great deal to discuss." 

The Hessian hauled him up from the grave effortlessly, but did not release his hand. Ichabod found himself staring up into somber grey eyes at very close range. The Hessian frowned and said something in a strange language Ichabod guessed must be German. Ichabod shook his head and shrugged. The Hessian understood and tried again in stilted English. 

"What do you want, boy? Did you come back to die?" 

Fortunately for Ichabod who was having a little difficulty meeting the stormy eyes of the demon, Brom answered. "I had him bring me here, Horseman. I needed him to secure your help." 

"What?" Ichabod found his voice and turned to face Brom's spirit, fear pushed aside by curiosity and a measure of anger. "What do you mean by that. If you think for one moment that I am going to get the skull or anything else that might have power over the Horseman..." 

"No, I meant nothing of the sort, Ichabod." 

Brom's ghost was in front of him as suddenly as if it had always been there. Ichabod took an involuntary step backwards and felt himself back into the very solid frame of the Hessian. He froze and tried to keep his feet against the roaring in his ears. He felt a hand rest surreptitiously in the middle of his back, lending him support. He was surprised and grateful. He glanced back at the Hessian. His expression was suspicious, but not yet angry. 

He thought that he should probably step forward, but his feet would not obey. He could feel the powerful body behind him through the thin fabric of his clothing. Ornate armor covered the broad chest, but he could feel the stone hard muscles of the flat stomach even through the leather. The Horseman felt warm, hot almost. Ichabod fought the urge to press his whole body against source of that warmth. Ichabod's heart thudded so loudly that he felt sure both ghosts could hear it. 

Brom's ghost looked at him strangely. Then gently stroked his cheek. He heard the Hessian's low growl behind him and felt the gloved hand that still held his tighten painfully. He was suddenly very cold and very frightened. 

"Don't be afraid Ichabod." Brom's voice was soothing. He stepped back pointedly lowering his hands. 

The Hessian's grip lessened instantly. Ichabod took a shaky breath and pulled his hand away. The Hessian let it go, but the strong hand that rested in the small of his back did not move. He found himself rather glad of it. He straightened and squared his shoulders Resting his hands on his hips and looking down his nose. 

"I want someone to tell me what is going on this instant. What exactly did you mean by bringing me here, Brom?" 

"The Horseman has the power to set me free. He can send my spirit to whatever lies beyond. I needed you to leave the bridge and lead me here as I said, but I also needed you to call him. I knew he would come for you." 

"For me, why?" Ichabod's voice was only a whisper lost in the wind blowing through the leaves of the forest. 

Brom's ghost faced the dark spirit. "Set me free, please. I beg of you." 

The Horseman stepped up, pushing Ichabod gently aside. His spurs chimed menacingly as he faced Brom. He caught Brom's chin forcing the cornflower blue eyes to meet his own silvery eyes. "Is there nothing to keep you here? Hate, Love, Revenge? You really wish so much to pass beyond?" 

"Yes", Brom's voice was firm. "I made a lot of mistakes, I missed out on a lot of chances. If I can, I'd like to try again. If I can't, I'll pay whatever debt I owe and be at rest. I don't want to go on forever, alone. I'm not that strong." 

"Why me?" Both ghosts ignored Ichabod. 

"You thought to trade his life for your death?" The Hessian's voice was deadly calm and cold as ice.

"No, No, I swear I meant him no harm." 

Brom's swift "No!" only partially covered Ichabod's shocked gasp. "No!" Brom took a step backwards raising his hands as if to ward off the demon. "I would never do that to Ichabod. I could have loved him, if I had not been such a fool, if I had realized how short time was."

"I saw the way you knelt over his body after you ran him through with your sword, the way you cut yourself and let your own blood drop into the wound to close it. I saw you push the hair from his eyes and stroke his cheek before you left. You would never hurt him of your own free will, no more than I would and for the same reason." 

"I was there in the end as well, watching at the tree. I saw the tears in his eyes when you regained your head, the smile when you greeted your horse. I saw something like jealously in Ichabod's eyes when you kissed Lady Van Tassell before carrying her into the tree." 

"I brought him here so you wouldn't make the same mistake I did. I thought that if I could do that for him, even if you did not set me free from this world, that I might be able to atone for at least one mistake, mend at least one wrong." 

Brom's ghost looked over at Ichabod who was standing where he had been left. "Was I wrong?" 

Ichabod looked up at the Hessian meeting the strange eyes curiously. He felt the same thrill of terror and excitement he had always experienced in the ghost's presence. He thought of the hand lending him strength, the dangerous growl. Carefully, he made his way over to the two spirits. 

His voice was little more than a whisper when he spoke. "You weren't wrong, Brom." 

He looked again at the Hessian then boldly reached for the hand that was not holding Brom's head. The Horseman took the offered hand and raised it, palm up, to his lips. Ichabod trembled at the feather light touch. He leaned on the strong shoulder beside him and reached up to push a lock of Brom's honey colored hair from his face. He seemed to be floating somewhere above his body as he leaned forward and kissed the younger man's shade gently. 

"Thank you, Brom." 

The Hessian leaned in closer to Brom. "Of this you are sure? You wish to die in spirit as in flesh?" 

"Yes." 

The Hessian nodded. He leaned down and kissed Brom firmly on the mouth. He was far gentler than he had been with Lady Van Tassell. Brom's ghost grew transparent then seemed to break apart into rippling strands of mist. The restless wind caught the last drifting tendrils and carried them away into the night.

"He's free?" Ichabod shivered in the night breeze. 

"Yes." The Horseman turned wrapping Ichabod in his arms, pulling him against his leather clad body, enclosing him in his long riding cape. 

Ichabod relaxed against the strong body and raised his face to the dark figure. "If I love you, there's no way back is there?" 

"No." The Horseman's voice was certain. "Love me and I will give you all that I am, the night, the grave, the forest, the thunder, and the mist for all times; but I will never let you go." 

"And if I walk away?" 

"Your world will be there as it has always been, but you will not be who you were before, I think. Nothing else will be changed. I will let you go while I still can. Know this, though. If I taste your lips, if I touch your silky flesh, I will never let you go. I will take you, possess you, in spirit and in flesh." 

Ichabod closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the Hessian's shoulder. Strong arms surrounded him, holding him, protecting him. He thought of what lay behind him; Katrina's cold acceptance of Brom's death, the corruption beneath the surface of such a small, close-knit community, his superiors scornful disregard of science, his father's religious intolerance, his mother's magic that could not even protect her from a drunken madman. Ichabod made his decision and looked up at the spirit's face. 

He memorized it in the silvery moonlight, wild black hair, pale skin, hollow cheeks, generous mouth, nightmare teeth, stubborn chin and jaw. He took a step back and boldy ran his hands from the broad shoulders, down the armored chest, and across the flat stomach before encircling his narrow waist. He leaned in inhaling the scents of pine, wind, and rain that seemed to cling to the Hessian. Finally, he brought his gaze back to the intense eyes that seemed to burn right through him. 

"Take me." 

The Hessian smiled and caught him up in a crushing embrace lifting him and spinning him around before standing him upright once more. The dead soldier leaned down and found Ichabod's lips. A slow fire seemed to spread through the mortal. He opened his mouth beneath the onslaught and responded passionately allowing his own need and hunger to burn uncontrolled. He never felt the pain as the sharpened teeth bruised his lips and tore at his tongue. 

Ichabod felt himself lifted and was vaguely aware of movement, but it was a distant unimportant knowledge superceded by the fiery wetness of the Horseman's mouth moving over his chin, down his throat, and into the hollow of his collarbone. He could feel the tingling of bruises rising in the wake of that voracious mouth, but realized that it did not matter anyway. 

He cried out softly as he was lowered onto the ground. Moss covered soil pillowed him and earthen walls blocked out all but a long rectangle of the night sky. He was in the grave, he realized dimly. He should be afraid, but there was no fear, no desire to faint or run. He was home, he realized as the Hessian's ghost ripped his shirt open. 

He caught the pin that secured the Horseman's cloak and released the heavy garment. It was somewhat harder to find and undo the tiny buckles that held the breast plate in place, but he managed with a muttered curse that turned into a yelp of pleasure as his lover found his navel and attacked it with his teeth and tongue. The Hessian's loose shirt followed then his heavy belt. 

The Horseman kicked off his boots himself, and struggled out of his pants, Ichabod realized that his were already gone. The Hessian rested on his knees rising above him. For a moment Ichabod could see his lover clearly, outlined in moonlight. His whole body seemed to be comprised of chorded muscle. He was big, everything about him was impressive. 

"Yes," he breathed as the Hessian's body covered his own. "Tell me your name," he whispered into the thick mane of dark hair as the Horseman spread his thighs and touched him with surprising gentleness. 

The ghost moved upward to place a slow, deep kiss on Ichabod's lips before whispering his name softly into his ear. Ichabod arched his back and screamed his name as his phantom lover made them one in flesh and in spirit. He cried out again as they both found release. 

The late autumn rains that fell steadily for the next week covered the Hessian's silent grave once more. The villagers in the Hollow looked for Ichabod Crane, but none of them managed to find the old Indian trail that led to the Tree of the Dead. It was as if the forest itself had swallowed it up. 

To this day, the western woods are a haunted place where brave men dare not venture. Many a sober and upright citizen has heard in the stillness of the night, the cry of a horse and a sudden blast of thunder, and a few claim to have caught a glimpse of a nightmare steed bearing two demonic figures with hair as dark as midnight and faces as pale as the dead.


End file.
